Anders' Alphabet
by Combination-NC
Summary: For every letter of the alphabet, a step on the journey that turned a young boy from the Anderfels into the man who released his first lover from a fate worse than death and started a rebellion that set the world aflame.
1. A As In Anders

It had not been enough to simply take him from his family; no, they had to drag him across what felt like half of Thedas, as well. The templars back in the Anderfels had been bad enough, heavy-handed and essentially _kidnappers_, but he had at least been able to understand what they said. These new ones, the Fereldan ones, speak in a language he does not fully comprehend, and push him around in impatience when he does not react to their instructions quickly enough.

He is not going to cry, because he is too old for that, but it is still _unfair_. They do not understand him, either, but _he_ is not pushing anyone, is he?

Just kicking and shoving his elbows into them, really. They do not feel it, of course, but that is not the _point_. He is not going to let himself be kidnapped peacefully; it is the fighting back _itself_ that matters, not how successful it is.

Which it is not, at all. They laugh at him and call him _Anders_, as if he does not have a name of his own. Or _Mage_, since he is one, now, and _Robe_, which does not make any sense; he is not wearing robes, and never has.

He would not tell them his name if they asked for it, anyway.

When they reach a big lake, he tries to make a run for it and is quickly caught, only a few steps away. It still counts. He stares sullenly at the water as the boat takes them across. If they had not tied back his arms, he would dive in and swim away.

They drag him into a tower, terrifying in its size and isolation, and then through desolate hallways that gives his insults a nice echo. No one understands him well enough to scold him for them, so he might as well give it his all.

Eventually, they pass a teenager with a familiar greyish hue to his light brown hair, his prominent nose and jawline marking him as another Anders. He looks as if he is trying not to smile; a clear encouragement to yell something _especially_ colourful. At least _someone_ in here appreciates his efforts.

When people finally cares to know his actual name, it is serious older men in a barren office. He does not feel like answering any of them, and let them call him Anders all they want.

That is who he is, now, and the person he used to be no longer matters; they have made that very clear.

He is not going to let them take the one last thing that is truly his own to decide over.


	2. B Is For Blame

"Do they _really_ blame us, do you think? Or is it just an excuse?" So many things are better than studying, especially when the books they study might be filled with lies anyway. Lying with his head in Karl's lap, staring up at his chin is one, even if the bunk bed in the apprentices' quarters lacks the privacy he has been missing for years. "For all the bad things. The corruption of the Golden City, the Tevinter Imperium… the mages living _now_ had nothing to do with any of it. So why would they keep blaming and punishing _us?_ It has to be an excuse." But for _what?_ No one wants to talk about it, not even Karl, not really. Anders can usually tell him about whatever it is he has on his mind, but this is something that makes him tense, not unlike an animal expecting danger. That means it must be something dangerous, because Karl is not even afraid of _templars_.

Anders is not either, not _all_ of them. He has trouble with telling them apart, is all. With their helmets on it is all but impossible to know who it is in there unless they speak, and by then it is usually too late. And then they blame _him_, for being a troublemaker.

"Not so much blame as fear, I should think," Karl responds at last. "Fear is trickier to overcome."

Anders knows that well. He can shake off their blame, but he has to live with his own fears. The fear of being locked in here forever, the fear of possession, the fear of templars. He is not able to escape from them, either, the way he tries to escape the Circle itself. The thought is an uncomfortable one, but he cannot change the subject inside his head as well as he can outside it.

"Your beard is coming along nicely," he says in the hopes of that one will follow the other. He does not expect to be here long enough to see Karl succeed in growing what he calls a _proper _one; the next time, he _will_ make it outside of the tower. Getting caught trying once is no reason to not try again.

If he gets caught once more, he will not blame himself. They have an unfair advantage with that phylactery, after all.

For some reason they have the gall to blame him for even _wanting_ to escape.


	3. C As In Care

One of the worst things about the Circle tower is that almost no one in here really _cares _about them. So many of them are just children, some still so small that they will not even be able to remember their families after they have grown up, and should still have someone to care for them. But the Circle has put a stop to that, forcing them from their homes and locking them up in here.

Anders knows that he will never meet his family again. He is too far away now to ever visit, and even if he could escape and get back to the Anderfels, he is not sure if he would be able to find his way home. And if he got there, they would just give him up again; when they have once before, they would not hesitate to do so again.

He, like most other mages, does not get any letters from them, either. He does not read all that well anyway. Karl helps him in secret, next to him in the lower bunk bed, letting him lean on him when he has to. He just needs to be wanted, sometimes, to not feel thrown away. Not getting pushed away is good enough, because it _has_ to be. Karl tousles his hair, much like he imagines an older brother would. And… he cares. At least enough to help him with the language, written as well as spoken, and to not push him away when he gets close.

But it is not the same as having someone to take care _of_ him, to protect him. It is not like having a family, like having parents. Karl's manner of caring is of a different kind, the one that is shared between friends. And having a friend is nice; someone who does not laugh at his accent, someone who still speaks the language he has known for all his life, someone to tell different kinds of secrets, someone who understands and will not laugh at words like _rädsla_, _mardrömmar_ and _hemlängtan_. But it is not the _same_, and it is not the _only_ kind of caring he still needs, that so many mages are still in need of but are denied.

It is a cruel thing to do, to deprive them of their families, of all choices they could ever have made. And they do it in the name of _protection_, and _for their own good_.

Does the Circle protect children better than their parents could? Who, exactly, is this supposed to be good for? There is no one here to care about their nightmares, about what they want, or even what they need. This is a place of joyless hallways, crowded rooms with rows of bunk beds and guards watching over them, and _not_ to protect them. Because there is nothing in here that they should need swords to protect them from.

Anders searches for Karl's hand, and grabs it too hard when he finds it, closing his eyes, pressing his forehead against his shoulder, fighting back the images of what the swords are truly for. Karl smells _safe_, like wood and old books and Anderfels earth.

And he is the only one in here who cares whether Anders lives or dies.

* * *

><p><em>The words are fear, nightmares and homesick.<em>


	4. D Is For Dusk

The tower is almost completely devoid of natural light; with most rooms lacking proper windows, it is as if the entire building is trapped in an eternal dusk. What light there is, is faint and feels unnatural, clammy, and somehow defiled. The hallways are the worst, the sleeping quarters only slightly better. There, at least, one is expected to close ones eyes, and people will assume that the goal is sleep, and not hiding under the darkness of eyelids; the only escape he has some days.

The library is one of the better places. There are windows placed heartbreakingly high up, but they do let in natural light; a little bit of sun untainted by stone. Out of his reach by normal means, but sometimes he climbs all the way up, to simply sit and watch the light. An act that warrants punishment, of course, but it does not matter to him. He is considered a troublemaker anyway. Mostly because he is still able to find things that are _worth_ getting in trouble for.

There is little wonder, really, that his mood twists and turns at times. Being overcome by despair every now and then is to be expected in a place like this, really. Karl wonders and worries, concerned glances and a wrinkle of worry between his eyebrows, hesitant questions and frantic embraces, as if it is somehow _strange_ to feel like this. Anders himself finds it much stranger that not more mages grows weary or desperate like he does, and tries to escape it. He is sick of being confined in this artificial dusk.

He just wants sunrises and sunsets, to be allowed to watch the dawn turn into a new day, and to be allowed outside to _live_ in it. There is nothing strange about that at all.


	5. E As In Escape

There are different kinds of escape; not just the one you make from a tower, persuaded by templars sent to rob you of more than physical freedom.

From some things, the slight comfort of closed eyelids is not diversion enough.

But for now, he presses his knuckles against them, hard enough to see colours and sparks. Against his own darkness, they are similar to a night sky scattered with stars, but moving and with so many different hues of light. It is a sight far better than dull stone and old tapestries. Nowhere near as grand as the real thing, but for now it will have to do; a brief escape is better than none at all.

The library is another, with books to devour and be drawn into. While they are meant for studies they still describe the _world_, and he desperately needs _more_ of it, in any way he can, to be reminded of better things and better places. Descriptions and drawings of plants are not even close to being adequate substitutes for walking through fields and forests, but recalling how doing it _felt_ with the help of old pages will have to do, for now.

Karl is the best one; escaping the cold reality for a while to hide in warm arms can be dangerous with hearts so close together, but to Anders it is a danger that would be even more dangerous to go without. They share touches that are intimate not due to the places touched but the intent behind them, the not so well-hidden _care_. He needs that care so much that it hurts sometimes, just to feel that he is somehow still needed in this world, no matter what the Chantry says about him being cursed.

Because there is one final way to escape, one that no one could ever bring him back from. The comfort of Karl, no matter how dangerous, still has to be better than that.


	6. F Is For First

It simply feels like a natural way for their relationship to progress; he does not exactly think of it as a _relationship_, not in those terms, because there is danger in that. But they _are_ friends and they are about to become more, and that means _something_, even when there is a limit to what they are allowed to become in the Circle, in general and to each other.

Will they be lovers after this? It seems like a strange word for it, in a way, when they are not allowed love. But there _is_ love involved, and despite it being a different kind of love than the most dangerous one, there are times when Anders tries to pretend that it is not there at all. Not only due to the risk of a templar finding out and using it against them, but because he cannot have anything, _anyone_, to tie him down here. If he gets too close, he might become content, and while _content_ seems to be the most a mage can ever hope for, it is not enough for him and it will never be. No love of any kind will be allowed to keep him here. Not the kind one might foolishly hold for a lover, and not the one you cannot help but feel for a friend.

Sharing something like this will not change that; whatever else they might become or could have been, they will be friends first. Karl is not The One, because _that_, the very concept of there even being a _The One_, is something that cannot exist in the Circle. It is a silent agreement among the mages; for their own protection and for their own good, infuriatingly mirroring the Chantry's reasons for locking them up in the first place. As if being protected from all choices and options could ever be a good thing.

Karl will not be The Only and he can never be The One, but he will be The First. Anders still has the freedom to chose this, and choosing it feels _right_.

It feels right to smile the invitation; not the kind of smile he has practised in secret, but a shy one with slightly heated cheeks, one that he would not let anyone else see.

It _has_ to be Karl, it was _meant_ to be Karl, it always was. Karl who has always been there, to listen and to hold, never judging the deep gaps of his ups and downs, always a calming presence. _To the Void with the danger of feeling_; he is going to feel this to the fullest, lose himself in it, revel in _feeling_ for once.

He backs slowly towards the bed, drawing Karl with him more with his eyes than he does his hand. They do not talk, the _yes_ too heavy in the air for words. There is too much want and too much need, too much anticipation and lust for anything but touches, smiles, gazes and kisses, hands on robes, fingers on clasps, undoing hidden buttons.

Anders' robes are the first to fall to the floor, and Karl's lips are warm against his shoulders as their fingers entwine. The bed is welcoming and soft, but not as soft as lips against lips, and nowhere near as welcoming as the press of the hard body against him. Limbs tangle with limbs for a moment, bodies moving against each other as if by their own will, thoughts and commands having no place here. Karl is the one to pull back, and then down; planting kisses all over him, from his feet and moving upwards, beard tickling the inside of his thighs, tongue tracing secret promises against his skin, then fulfilling them with tongue as well as lips, mouth and hands, leaving Anders gasping for air. The kisses continue, soft and caring, over his stomach and arms, then up to his forehead before their lips meet again.

There is preparation and a new use for a spell, quickly forgotten embarrassment when a knee hits an ear, then Karl moving _inside_ him, Anders holding one of his hands, gripping it tighter for each thrust. Karl is not as heavy on top of him as he thought he would be; he _fits_ somehow, and it feels right from beginning to end. And then there is more, because they can, because this moment together with no intruding eyes is something treasured to make the most of.

Having Karl on his back and having him inside feels right was well, strong hands altering between caressing him and holding him in place. Anders does not remember when his hair came loose, but he wonders how he looks like with it down, touching his shoulders. He wonders if he looks anything like he feels, like he sounds.

Afterwards, Karl holds him close but not too tight, tousles his hair and speaks to him, gently, lovingly.

For there is love here, as precious as the dangerous kind. But while others might have romantic thoughts of how _nothing_ should ever stand in the way of love, his own feelings are close to the opposite.

Anders is not going to let any kind of love stand in the way of freedom.


	7. G As In Garment

He does not loathe the standard robes simply because they are _ugly_. They are, of course, completely hideous and downright visually offensive, but ugly on its own is something he can deal with. He _has_ to, or he would have gotten an aneurysm by now, considering how many times he has been sent to Irving's office.

What irks him the most is how they all look the same, how they force them to look interchangeable, how they strip them down to nothing more than their rank. Apprentice. Mage. Enchanter. And nothing more. He hates it, the feeling of being forced into some kind of box, the demand to fit the mould of a proper Circle mage as if it was a good thing. To blend in, to become not much more than a slightly more mobile part of the background, to not stand out in any way.

It is unnerving, having them all look like shadows of each other.

There are ways to get non-standard robes, though, once you are Harrowed. Robes like _these_, dark blue silk and glorious gold thread embroidery, slit sides and _feathers_. They are beyond all doubt the most beautiful robes in the entire Circle tower. The way they move when he walks is an invitation to _dance_, to spin around in joy, to move in complicated patterns to some inner tune.

At his request, a recently transferred girl has showed him some steps she knows. It might or might not have started as an excuse to get to know her better, but there is a certain joy in it; moving with _purpose_, and _why_ he asked to learn no longer matters to him, he is simply glad that he did.

And what matters now is showing off these robes to Karl, to impress him with how well they fit and how much they show of _him_. Even if he has to pry a book out of his hands to get his attention.

Turns out he has to.

"Anders –" Karl begins, a protest falling on deaf ears as Anders removes the book from his hands.

"No, no, this is _much_ more important, you _have_ to see this," he insists as he is backing away, before stretching his arms out to do a little spin, blue silk swirling around his legs, the slits in this robe exposing so much more of them than a standard one would.

"What do you think?" Anders asks as the skirts settles around him. He can guess from the way Karl looks at him, but he would like to hear him say it, as well.

"Yes, yes, very nice," is the answer, which is not answer enough, longing looks or not. Well, if that is how he is going to be, Anders knows how to deal with it.

"Suitable for dancing, don't you think?"

Karl raises his eyebrow and voices his doubt, but that does not matter either; what matters _now_ is that a body is meant for moving, and _how_ it was made to move. Complicated steps he knows well enough by now to dare show someone, and the arm movements that goes with them. There is no music in the tower, but he imagines how music meant for these movements would sound, and he lets his body follow the imagined tune, smiling as much to himself as he does for Karl.

What they say afterwards does not matter as much as what they already know, and the smile Anders gives him is not his deliberately seductive, carefully practised one, but the kind one smiles when a dear wish has been granted.


	8. H Is For Hope

Some mages are able to grow content with life in the Circle, but Anders is not one them, never one to settle for merely being _content_ . Or simply waiting and hoping for change to happen. Doing nothing but hoping for freedom is useless; it is not something anyone is ever going to give to him. Life is not a fairytale where he can sit in his tower and wait for a handsome knight in shining armour to come and save him from this peril. As if he would even _want_a knight – that shining armour would be much too similar to that of a templar for his taste.

No, he much prefers the scholarly type, like Karl, or whatever type he would have been if he had not been forced to be one by the Chantry. A farmer most likely, as would he, dull and unfitting as it seems. Farmers both, then, but not together.

Without the Circle, it is unlikely that he would ever have met Karl, but not _impossible_ . Even as a free man, Anders suspects that staying in one place all the time would make him _itch_ . It would drive him away, making him utterly unsuitable as a farmer, and perhaps taking him to Karl. There is something about this, this not quite love, this comfortable companionship that feels like it was _meant_to be. Like no matter which world, which time, which place, Karl would always be there to be the First.

And under different circumstances, perhaps even more.

"Don't you _ever_wish for anything better than this? Do you really never hope for more?" Anders asks, head resting on Karl's shoulder.

"Well," Karl… _hesitates_, the focus of his eyes drifting towards the ceiling instead of his friend, but Anders has always trusted him to tell him the truth. "At times."

Grey eyes meet his own again, so serious and much too _sad_for Anders' liking. "But hope is not a promise," he adds, sounding so many times older than his actual age, and Anders cannot stand it. Life has never promised anyone anything more than the eventual end of it, anyway.

"It does not have to be," Anders says as he pulls himself up to let their noses touch, the most Anders against Anders. His next words are whispers against Karl's lips, almost kisses, and even more intimate. "It is just… _fuel_."

It is true as Karl says; hope is not a promise. But it _is_ fuel, something to fire his determination.


	9. I As In Isolated

**Warnings:** Claustrophobic with vague hints of physical abuse.

* * *

><p>It is not only the confinement of the heavy walls that Anders find maddening, but how <em>isolated<em> they are as well. Tucked away in this tower on a small island only accessible by boat ever since the bridge was allowed to crumble, surrounded not only by water but people who seem to loathe them all as well. Some seem downright disgusted by him, and some seem anything but, only in the very worst of ways. None of them thinks of him as human, as a _person_. He is _something _to be used when convenient and then put away, and he is considered too troublesome to be useful most of the time. He has enough potential to be useful to be kept alive, but that is all they allow him; this grey imitation of a life.

Some days there is not even enough light in the world to call it grey. Some days they stuck him into a cell as if they _want_ him to think of the Circle as a prison. It _is_, of course it is, but in front of so many others they preach and tries to pretend that it is something else. Pointless in Anders' mind, when it even is in the name. Kinloch _Hold_. To hold them here, trap them here and take everything they can from them. They even had to take the light this time, as if staring into darkness for days is going to make him _behave_ himself in the future, if he can even call the rest of his life that. _Future _implies more opportunities than he will be allowed here.

He needs to not count the steps from wall to wall, he needs to not claw at them until his nails are chipped and fingertips bleeding and he needs to stop screaming in something that _must not _be terror, he needs to not chew at his lips to distract himself from the feeling of the stone above and around him. There is danger in blood, of course, but the wounds on his back are a greater call to demons than what he is able to do to himself short of biting his own arteries open. He does not want them to know how much this is getting to him, that is all.

He needs so much more than to not show them any weaknesses that should not even be considered such. He needs air and he needs sunlight, he needs wind and he needs rain, he needs to feel _alive _and not buried deep under so much stone like the dwarven dead.

He needs to keep calm.

He needs Karl.

And that need is a danger greater than the demons that whisper about freedom in his ear at night. The demons have nothing to use against him, but when he needs Karl the templars do.

It is not about _love_, at least not as a romantic attachment, but when his mood twists and turns and reach greater depths than any grave he can imagine, he needs someone to hold on to, needs to not be alone and to not be despised or forgotten. When his mind races away from him he needs a familiar hand on his shoulder, a reminder that life is more than the horrific lows he does not even understand himself.

There are no _comforting _hands or arms down here.

At mealtime he is allowed light, and to great risk for them both some of the bowls have notes hidden under them. Nothing conspiratory and nothing romantic, but small reminders of the outside world; of the other side of the cell door, of the floors above and the world beyond it all. Small stories of is happening in the tower, who Mister Wiggums has scratched most recently, various retellings of amusing pranks as well as assurances that he is missed and not forgotten. And the request or plea to _hold on_.

Anders is unsure whether he needs to cry or not.


	10. J Is For Judgement

**Warnings:** Mentions/hints of abuse that can be interpreted as either sexual or general physical, but I would recommend those who finds sexual abuse triggering to not read this, to be on the safe side. It deals with the aftermath and confused feelings of such abuse, as well as the aftermath of flogging.

* * *

><p>"They kept me silenced. I couldn't heal it." His voice is too hollow for his liking and his shoulders tense enough to hurt, but that pain pales in comparison to that on his back and elsewhere, deeper. At least his hands no longer hurt, as ugly as they look.<p>

He can feel Karl doing his best to mend the damaged flesh on his back. Their healing skills are nowhere near evenly matched, but until his own magic is once more within reach it is the best he is able to receive. In a way, having Karl do it for him is a comfort he needs as much, if not more, than the actual healing itself; to be taken care of, be so clearly cared for by someone, and that _care _is able to diminish some of the pain that healing magic is unable to reach.

As it is, healing magic is not going to be able to take care of his back either, not completely. Too much damage has already been done to it, and been left to scar. He can feel it; his back is forever beyond repair now. He can feel it in the scars and he can feel it in the way Karl carefully cleans off the dried blood; the touch is _hesitant_, almost afraid to reveal the no doubt unsatisfactory results of his efforts.

And then the silence confirms it beyond any doubt he might have held.

"It is ugly, isn't it? I knew it would scar." Anders looks over his shoulder for a moment; one painful in its briefness, but meeting Karl's sad eyes for too long is another kind of painful, and one that might be worse. Worse enough to make him return his gaze to his lap where his damaged hands rests. Those had been taken care of first, the rawness, gashes and bites sealed up, but the chipped nails and new skin still makes them look _damaged_.

Karl tries to speak, and hearing his sadness hurts, too. "You could heal it again when –"

"It won't be enough, they are still going to be there!" His own voice is shaking with anger, not directed at Karl but the world at large for putting him here, at the mercy of people who do things like _this_ and _worse_. He touches the scars with the backside of his hand with none of the gentleness Karl had present. "They were left untreated for too long."

Karl reaches out to take his hand in his, to carefully stroke its fingers to soothe.

"It looks disgusting. They wanted me to look disgusting." Anders whispers, unwanted or wanted tears in his voice; he still does not know whether he needs to cry or not.

"You don't." Karl says and lets go of his hand to wrap both his arms around him instead, and in his touch is a world of difference from anyone else's. His arms are comforting and his hands are kind, and nothing about them is like the touch of a templar. As Anders fails to keep his sobs down and tears held back, Karl lets one hand wander upwards to stroke them away together with his shame over showing how deep his hurt is. "You never could."

"But I _do_. And I _am_. I am and they _know_ it and they wanted it to _show_, too." He spins around to face him. "You know why I am! And they want _everyone_ to know it!" To simply judge him, silently or loudly, is not enough for the templars. No, everyone has to _know_, everyone has to see and pass judgement on him, to look at him and know and sneer and judge. For not being strong enough, for not fighting back enough. To be able to accuse him for somehow inviting it and still doubt him. It was dark and the hours and days floated together, making it impossible to clearly know _who_and _when_, leaving him with no way to be believed, only questioned and accused. As if he would _imagine_, as if he would not _know_. When they judge and accuse him for even being born, surely they would blame him even for -

"Anders, no. _No_." Karl puts his hands around his face, coaxing him to meet his eyes, the look in them more serious than he has ever seen before. "You are _not_. It does not make you disgusting – this is important. _You are not disgusting_."

Anders does not know if he wants to believe him or not, if he wants to press himself down in his feelings of disgust and self-loathing or if he wants to let Karl help him chase at least some of them away. He does not know what he wants to feel or what he is supposed to feel, if there is a _right _feeling he should have, if he is somehow failing in this as much as he failed to prevent what has made him feel like this in the first place.

All he knows is that Karl is the only one who cares and the only one who ever will, and that is why he lies down to put his head in Karl's lap, to have all his current and future tears gently wiped away and his hair stroked.

"It _feels_ as if it looks disgusting, though," Anders insists after a while in a vain attempt to chase as much of the previous discussion away as possible, because he does not want to think about it and he does not want Karl to, either. No one is going to think about it, picture it in their mind's eye, no one is going to see Anders like that.

Karl lets him have that as he lets him have so much else; too much, just as Anders is much too glad for it.

"Don't worry about it. Girls will still like you."

Anders tries a smile, to make his face show something other than fear or despair. "And slightly older men with beards?"

Karl smiles back, making Anders' own smile widen in response; a true one this time. "Always."


	11. K As In Karl

Their first meeting was in a hallway, a fellow Anders recognising the meaning of the insults hurled at the templars dragging him along, further and further away from his home. The insults became a little more colourful after that; might as well put all his effort into it, when someone actually understood. Those hallways were in desperate need of some sort of colour anyway.

They start talking because they are both Anders, but that is not why they continue doing so. The language is difficult and he does need Karl's help, but that is not why he wants to keep talking with him, why he wants_ his _help and no one else's. It is not simply because it is convenient to talk with someone who is not bothered by his accent, who can help him translate unfamiliar words. It is something in the way that Karl looks at him; fondly, like he belongs in this world after all.

Sitting next to him in the lower bunk to practice his reading is comfortable and safe, making the small space resemble something almost like an actual home. Karl tousles his unkempt hair and is patient with the tantrums he cannot keep at bay, making him feel less thrown away.

Part of him feels like he is throwing that safe companionship away himself when he throws himself in the lake to escape. It was a short lived freedom, and the tower is greyer than ever when he is dragged back.

He does not expect Karl to offer a hug of welcome with a secret look of _better luck next time _in his eyes.

His luck is not much better next time as he does get caught eventually, but he did get further away than across the lake, and has had a chance to _live _more. To see things and people and _weather_. He likes to think that it has changed him somehow, made him more mature and interesting. People are noticing him more, now; they listen to his jokes and his stories, and he feels _exciting_, the centre of the apprentices' attention. He himself does not put much attention towards things other than being defiant in whatever ways he can. And Karl, who has managed to grow what he calls a proper beard, and it makes him look just _right_. Anders is not the only one who has changed; there is something different about Karl as well. Something of that safe, familiar feeling of him is still there, but it is no longer the same as it once was. He somehow stands out more now, he smells nicer and feels warmer as they sit next to each other, shoulders touching, making him tingle and giving life to new thoughts. Not necessarily because he wants things to change or because they need to, but because Karl has been his light in the tower and if there is even the smallest chance to make his life brighter, he will take it. That tingle of strange newness is like a spark he cannot help but ignite into something, whatever it may be, urging him to reach out a hesitant hand to stroke the recently perfected beard.

Then lips meet lips for the first time of so many; too many at the same time as not ever enough, Karl gently resting one hand against Anders' cheek while the other caresses his hair instead of tousling it. The kiss is a soft one, wetter than he had imagined it would be in the seconds before he went from thought to action. Tongues meeting feel wetter still and _strange_, but still more right than anything else in this place could ever be.

And at once Karl is no longer safety, because no matter what they do not tell each other, things are no longer the same.


	12. L Is For Light

**Author's note: **This chapter has **trigger warnings** for hints at abuse that could be _implied_ as either physical, sexual or both, but nothing is directly shown, neither in action nor thought. There is only one stray line that can be implied as such things having taken place against someone, as various kinds of abuses are proven in game to have been committed against Circle mages. There is also religious angst. Since Anders says that he was once a good little Andrastian, there must have been a point where he stopped believing himself to be one.

The fanart that belongs with this chapter can be found at my tumblr, and the (clearly marked) quotes are from the Chant.

* * *

><p>The lower in the Tower he is forced to go the heavier and more suffocating the weight of the levels above him becomes, but the lack of light is a heavier weight in his mind than any amount of stone could ever be.<p>

There is too little of it everywhere, but the solitary floor is the worst; no windows at all, not even high up, and the cells themselves so deep down in the dungeons that he can almost feel the lake that surrounds the island around him. He imagines the layers that trap him; stone, then earth, and water last, painting them in his mind's eye to distract from the darkness, the first and most suffocating layer of them all. There is no time when wrapped in it, only the slight difference between waking and sleeping, the uncomfortable embrace of the Fade or hazy, muddled thoughts. He needs a distraction from the dark as well as the oppressive loneliness, but the images he calls to mind only add to the weight above him and around and inside, and then all he can do is wrap his arms around himself and try to escape to a place where he can think of nothing at all.

When they let him out again, what light there is hurts both for how unaccustomed his eyes are to it and how it is still too little, too dull. He recalls thinking of it as an eternal dusk when he was younger, eyes desperately searching for windows low enough to let him see sunlight and how he used to climb up to look out of them when he had the chance. Back when he had the energy for such adventures, before solitary and more seeped the fight from his body.

The closest he has to the sun he longs for but now lacks the strength to reach out to is the sun of the Chantry; its sun brands on Tranquil foreheads, Templar sunshields and the red banners emblazoned with the rays of the Andrastian sun. The Chantry being filled with them should make him feel at peace and fill his heart with joy over the reminder of being in the Maker's light, but it does not, because he is not; cut off from the light of the Maker's creation, how can he be in His light? The Chant itself speaks of there being no darkness in the Maker's light, but darkness is a tight knot of constant despair in his chest during the day and a black city at the edge of the horizon in the Fade at night.

They say the ancient magisters of Tevinter were the cause of that, and he and all like him are the ones left to repent. He should not doubt them, should not see any of their words as lies, and he should never doubt the Chant whose words are said to be the only way to dispel the darkness cast upon mortals. But for all that he has tried, the more he repeats the verses the greater the darkness grows, because the Chant is no longer about joy and safety and _home_, and has not been for more years than he is able to admit, even in secret to no one but himself. It speaks to him still, but no longer with love but accusation. He is told to repent and he _tries_, hands clasped and the small of his back touching the back of the bench behind him as he hunches over, whispering the verses that dispel nothing at all. He should find comfort in them like a good Andrastian, but it all rings false. It speaks of demons that are the lies upon mortal sleep; whispering lures in the night to be let in, but being awake is not much better when he himself is the lie upon the waking world with his flippant remarks and attempt to be beating life with a carefree heart. He wants almost no one to know of it, but the Maker is forever judging all lies, even the unspoken ones; he needs to repent for them all all the same. But repentance is for those who have faith and are unshaken by the darkness. Those who drown in it are never to have true peace. For all his aching doubts his faith is not lost, but what he has left is not _enough_, not good enough, because he is _not_ unshaken and he _is_ in that darkness; lost in it now as much as he was down in solitary, as if he carried that darkness with him as he ascended to the living floors of the tower and kept it within as a constant whisper of lonely despair. There is no way for him to atone for being born with magic, so how can anyone with magic ever hope to repent?

Unless the way to repentance is to give it up. The mere thought of it is a horror of such strength that it causes him to shiver, but the Tranquil are all at peace, forever unshaken and with unwavering faith. Is that the way to salvation, then, to go to the sun brand? Is that the will of the Maker and the way to earn His forgiveness? Does the Maker want him to submit to that which he fears most of all? The possibility makes his mouth as dry as the oldest tomes in the library, looking as if they are about to fall apart even at the most gentle of touches. Tranquility is not what he wants, not for himself and not for anyone else. By not submitting, is he going against the Maker's plan, forever straying off the path to forgiveness? He has to be, he realises and whispers the proof to himself; words from the Chant, the law of the world, what he should do. "_The one who takes delight in the Maker's law and creations shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction."_

If he is even truly meant to follow the Chant at all; it belongs to the Maker's children, after all, and there are times when he wonders whether he really is one or not. "_Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker."_The templars are neither hated nor accursed by the Maker despite having done things that Karl says no one can ever provoke, but that can only mean that he is less of a person, less than an animal, perhaps even less than a demon. Or it might not count as harm if it is directed towards a mage. Or he could have imagined it all; yet another nightmare to be trapped in in the Fade, a bad dream woven by a demon seeking to force him give in and up so as to not feel so weak again, or afraid, hurt and disgusted, desperately lonely and drowning in his own shame.

And the shame that is his own is not the only shame he has to carry, not in a world where all captive mages have to carry the burden of a thousand year old sin. That he is nothing like those magisters and nothing like darkspawn does not matter, not when in the eyes of the devout his gift is not a gift that the wrong hands could twist, but a curse, no matter how much good he could use it for. Unlike that of those magisters' there is no vanity in _his_ power, only the urge to _help_. He does not need to be watched over by templars for signs of blood magic because it is all that healing is not; blood spilled and not sealed beyond quickly healed scars. His magic holds the gentle touch of healing and life itself, and he can see nothing corrupt in it. The possibilities to use magic to better the lives of people and to truly serve instead of ruling over anyone should be just as endless as those which the Chant mentions mortal souls being made with. Unless you are a mage, when even the smallest spark of magic denies anyone with it of all possibilities and of most hope, even dreams turning dangerous; lures for demons. That part of the Chant is not for him and neither is the one of the Maker awaiting the wonders of his children, because no one wants to see anything Anders might create, though the unquenchable flame in his heart remains; much like the Maker being the fire of the world's heart, there is something in his own that keeps him going, keeps him wanting even what he should not and striving for what will always be without his reach.

Other things are only without his reach for a while. Weeks of darkness and silence and horror is enough to take the words of his forced upon language from him, turning his whispered words of the Chant into a desperate mess of who he used to be and how he used to sound, and who he should be now. "_Min Skapare. Know my heart. Ta mig från ett liv av bedrövelser och lyft mig från en värld av smärta. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride."_

He traces a sun on his forehead, weighing what he wants against what the world seems to want; and he wants the _world_. All of it, with its sunlight breaking through the branches and leaves to caress soft forest paths, said sunlight glistening on the water of lakes that are not meant to trap anyone, and painting the sky in the colours of dawn each morning for him to see. If the path to the heart of the world is lined with the fire to heat the sun brand, if the only way to be seen as worthy in His eyes is to give his own heart up in a trade for his own sun to carry upon his forehead, perhaps he would rather take the path where he can still know his own heart. He wants the light of the sun in the sky more than he wants the Maker's light and approval, the freedom to use his gifts as they are and be as close to Karl as anyone with a free heart could; to not fear being each other's' lights in the tower, to not be in this tower at all.

As it is, the Chant first forced them together by having its followers tear them from their homes and bringing them here, and now it is tearing them apart by making love a weakness, and forcing him to prove that he is not weak.


End file.
